


You Are My Lioness

by Pameluke



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Missing Scene, Wall Sex, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pameluke/pseuds/Pameluke
Summary: After the vows, the Lioness of Cintra claims her husband.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 27
Kudos: 117
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	You Are My Lioness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/gifts).



Her blood is still thrumming with adrenaline. The battle, the Witcher, the Child of Surprise. Her thoughts keep tumbling and twisting around, like a parrying opponent with swift footwork, stepping out of reach of her sword arm with every move. 

Pavetta is wed to the man she loves, the alliance with Skellige will be bound by bed and blood, and the political maneuvering of the Lords of the North has been fielded off. Everybody knows the Lioness of Cintra will bow to no one without a fight, not even Fate or Destiny or the Law of Surprise.

Not a bad night's work. 

Calanthe looks at her daughter, talking with her prince of the hedge, her face alight, her smile so serene... Like her scream didn't shatter stone, bone, and mind. Like her future child hasn't been promised away to Destiny. To a fucking Witcher. 

Her daughter is happy. So fucking happy.

Calanthe grinds her teeth while pretending to smile.

Her country is secure, her daughter is happy. What more can a queen wish for? She still has her pride, she still has her reputation, she still has her daughter – she doesn't think of the grandchild Fate will wiggle from her hands someday – she still is the Lioness of Cintra. She should be happy. She has a husband. 

A husband. 

When her first husband died, she promised herself she would never again bow to the will of man. 

Yet here she stands, in her own Hall, promises and vows broken. She's married herself off to a Sea Hound of Skellige. A Jarl. Someone who won't bow to her, who won't give in to her demands.

Her blood stirs. The way he'd looked at her across the battlefield her Hall had turned into. She should have let him die, but...

Eist Tuirseach has been a nuisance in her ears for so long, she couldn't let him die.

So she married him instead.

Calanthe scoffs, takes her goblet and tilts back her head to drink up the last of her beer. Next to her, oblivious to her thoughts, Eist stares out at the Hall, where people are still picking through the debris, picking up weapons and goblets alike, or picking up some company for the night. After the events of the evening, most of it is probably improper, but Calanthe has long ago laid waste to propriety herself, she isn't going to insist on it tonight.

Tonight. Her wedding night. Her second wedding night.

Her wedding night with Eist.

She looks at him. Not from the corner of her eye like a coquettish maid, but straight on, like the Lioness she is. He's her husband now, there is no shame in looking at him. She's looked at him for years, because he's been looking at her all this time, and she's always looked back. It was all she allowed herself. 

Eist has always been a pleasure to look at, with his lean fighter's body and his teasing eyes. If she wasn't a Queen, she would have called him a friend, with his witty mind and his strong sense of honor. At least she hasn't sold herself off to an old man again. He is a Jarl of Skellige, and he's King of Cintra now. Her King. 

She won't bow to him, she swears to herself. Never again.

Without looking at her, Eist lifts the corner of his mouth, half a smile, half a joke at her expense, she's sure of it. She doesn't know why she finds that little smile charming, but she always has. Even if he does that too much, laughing at her. No one else does. No one else dares to.

"Troubled thoughts, my Queen?" he asks.

"I'm married to trouble, is what it is," she returns. She grabs another goblet of drink, red wine as it turns out, topples it back, swipes her sleeve over her mouth, and grabs him by the elbow. "Let's get this over with."

Eist doesn't object and lets himself be led away from the rubble of the wedding feast. She grunts. Fights, destruction, and fatal intervention. Sounds like a destined wedding for her indeed.

Eist is uncharacteristically quiet while she leads him to her chambers. She'd suspect him of trying to memorize the route, but he's smart enough to recognize a lost cause when he sees one. There are too many twists and turns in the hallways for him to remember them at once, never alone all the stairs and flights she leads him through. Once they're alone, he'll be at her mercy. Or she at his.

She shakes her head. Never again shall she be at anyone's mercy. Not Kings, not Gods, not Destiny. No one decides on her fate except for herself. If the Lioness and the Sea Hound ever come to fight, she will rip out his throat.

The wooden door is heavy as she closes it behind them.

"Alone at last," Eist says. He's smiling at her again, that awful half-smile that makes his eyes warm and her insides quiver. She doesn't quiver. A Lioness never quivers. 

So she pushes forward until she can brace her hands against his chest – so broad, so steadfast – and pushes, pushes, pushes until she has him pressed against the wall.

Still, Eist smiles at her, a wicked glint showing in his eyes while he looks down at her. Her fingers itch to press her dagger against his throat, to make him lift his chin and expose his vulnerable pulse point to her bite. Instead, she keeps him pressed against the wall, looking back at him. Their gazes lock and time seems to freeze, until finally, the mirth disappears from Eist's smile, his eyes still wicked, but slowly turning heated. Until Calanthe's cheeks are as flushed as if she's just returned from battle.

Her blood stirs. 

When did she start to stroke her thumb over his chest? 

"Calanthe," Eist whispers. "My Queen... My Lioness."

"I belong to no one," Calanthe bites back, more vehement than she intents. She slides a hand down his chest, still holding him against the wall with the other. His breath hitches almost inaudibly when she cups his cock, hot and hard to her touch even through his breeches. "It's you who are mine now," she says, bite turned to a molten whisper.

"Your King," Eist whispers, his breath a heated caress against her temple.

Growling, Calanthe claims his mouth with a kiss, so no more nonsense can escape his lips. She claims and takes and seizes, every breath and touch, until she's the Lord of his mouth, the Queen of his every breath of life. 

When they part, Eist is no longer looking at her, his eyes closed and his chest heaving while he leans his head back against the wall, his cheeks as flushed as hers. Finally, Calanthe allows her eyes to feast upon the sight of him. She feasts upon his fighter's body, his fighter's heart. He's all hers. This glorious man who stands up against her, in her own Hall, to defend what's just, and who still wants her while he does so.

He's hers.

She trails her hand up to his cheek, tilting his face down towards her. His eyes are no longer smiling when he looks back at her, but still heated and warm, filled with affection and lust. 

"Eist," she says softly, trying out his name on her lips. She kisses him more gently this time, an exploration rather than a conquest. Her hand roams over his chest, her other still pressed against his cock, keeping him in place. She kisses and touches and explores, until a moan escapes between their lips and she's unsure which one of them it belongs to.

"Touch me," she orders.

Eist responds like she begged him, swift and certain like the strike of his sword, one hand sliding down her back to spread out over her ass, the other tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, until she's flush against his body.

With a biting kiss and a curse under her breath, Calanthe lets go of her control.

Their kisses turn frantic, their touches hurried, and in the frenzy, she loses track of who opens Eist's breeches, or when he hikes up her shirts, or how she ends up with her back against the wall, Eist's mouth a hot brand on her throat.

He fucks her with his fingers first, with fast and shallow thrusts, his whole being focused on her pleasure, and her pleasure alone. He's bracing her against the wall with his big body, while she has hoisted a leg around his hips and has an arm wrapped around his neck. Her orgasm comes as a surprise, quick and fierce, while she gasps out his name. 

She's not surprised he knows his way around her body. After years of sparring and fighting together and against one another, with wits and words and swords, she knows him almost as well as she knows herself. The pleasure he brings her might be new, his touch might be tender and scorching at once, but it's still familiar.

"Calanthe," Eist breathes against her mouth, his forehead pressed against hers.

She bites at his lip, kissing him wildly and with abandon, while she grabs his cock so she can guide him inside of her. With a groan, Eist strokes down her thigh, fingers digging into her skirts and muscle, until he hoists up her leg and lifts her against the wall, fucking into her deep and slowly. 

She lets go of her last remnants of control, and gives herself over to the rush of pleasure, to the rhythm of their fucking and to the arms of her lover.

He's hers, and so is his sweat and his blood and his come, and she'll take it all. She'll take his pleasure and his affection, his jokes and his honor, his loyalty and his love.

And she'll give hers back.

With panting breaths, Calanthe slides her hands into his hair, making their gazes lock while they fuck. His eyes burn into hers. She knows her own are betraying too much, too many feelings and fears, and yet she doesn't look away. He fucks her hard and relentlessly, until she comes again, his name a whispered plea on her lips. She keeps looking at him, her skin tingling and oversensitive, her cunt throbbing and tender, her back aching where he fucks her against the wall. Still, she doesn't look away, until finally, Eist murmurs her name between panting breaths, and he spills inside of her, his whole body pressed against hers.

They both tremble when he puts her feet back down, and they take a moment to catch their breaths, both leaning against the wall. The back of their hands touch with every heaving breath, and the more her heart slows down, the more she focuses on that single, fleeting point of contact. Until the room turns quiet and cautious as if the space itself is bracing for their touch.

What's a Lioness to do when she's finally caught a worthy mate?

Next to her, Eist sighs, then grabs her hand and pulls her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I know you don't believe in Destiny," Eist finally breaks the silence between them, his voice uncharacteristically soft and careful. "But I've always thought you were mine."

Fuck Destiny, Calanthe thinks. 

But for once, she holds her tongue. She holds her tongue because here, in his arms, and only for a moment, Destiny feels worth it. 

Calanthe pulls Eist towards her, kisses him, and starts to lead him to her bed, until he falls down on her sheets, breeches lost and tunic open, his chest bared. 

Fuck Destiny, she thinks again. But for now, she'll simply fuck her King.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song from Sivert Høyem  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tsd4LUnPclc


End file.
